Three Months (Emptiness)
by Rayxahlia
Summary: One man dies. Another is left in pieces. - WARNING MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, SUICIDE, DEPRESSION, IMPLIED ALCOHOL ABUSE


He can't remember the last time he's slept. Or eaten.

Everything tastes like sawdust. Every time he closes his eyes he hears them. The sound of the bullets that killed his family. The sound of Red's body hitting the ground, of his neck snapping after a five-storey fall.

He wanders aimlessly in Matt's empty apartment, curtains drawn against the sunlight, the moonlight, the fucking light from the goddamn billboard outside the windows. He doesn't know what time it is. He doesn't give a shit.

He plays the message on the answering machine, the next best thing to Red's voice. "Hello, this is Matthew Murdock. Speak after the beep." He chokes up a little, swallows, blinks away the tears from his eyes. Pours coffee in his mug, adds a little too much whiskey to it.

He's been to his funeral. Standing as far away as possible from the altar, from the coffin. Proper Catholic funeral, in a church, not outside in the rain. _Why does it always rain at funerals?_ The priest seemed to know him well, his voice cracked when he delivered the eulogy. Matt's friend, that Nelson guy, was standing in the front row wearing a stunned face, exactly the same face he had when Frank had knocked on his door three days before then, holding Matt's lifeless body in his arms, desperately begging for help, panicking.

Karen seemed ready to pass out any second. Shoulders shaking with sobs, she tormented a napkin in her hands, her fingernails bitten to the point of bleeding. She held on to Nelson's arm, Frank couldn't tell who she wanted to keep on their feet, Foggy or herself.

He's followed the hearse to the cemetery, keeping in the dark, walking in the alleys. He's watched as they lowered everything he loved into the ground, again. He's watched as his own heart left his chest and joined Matt in that hole.

Emptiness. That's the only thing he can feel now. The only thing he's felt in the past three months. Even his rage, his constant companion, has left him. Everything is grey and dim. His chest feels empty. Sometimes he puts a hand on his neck to check for a pulse. He's sure his heart has stopped beating three months ago. He's disappointed when he feels a flutter under his fingertips.

The goddamn city is chaos. With Matt gone, the relative peace has been disrupted in a matter of hours. The rumour of the Devil's death has spread like wildfire. The sharpest tools in the shed have even noticed that The Punisher is not around anymore. Frank has heard rumours of his own death. The Police has stopped searching for him. The mob gangs have become reckless. Good. Frank is becoming reckless too.

Three months since the fall. He has spent every sober second in search of the pieces of shit who killed his Red. The fucking rats who were on that roof that night. The ones who managed to escape when his machine gun had run out of ammo. He wasn't ready. He hadn't brought enough rounds. He'll never forgive himself.

He's left Max at a no-kill shelter yesterday. The girls were very understanding when he told them he's leaving and Max can't go with him. He kissed the pup on the head and turned his back on him.

Three months. His memory for dates and anniversaries has always been worth shit, but that moment is permanently etched in his brain. He's been counting down the seconds. He knows exactly how much time has passed. He knows exactly what day, what time it was when his world had stopped turning for the second time. Three months, five days, eight hours.

He knows where they are. He knows what they will be doing tonight. He's ready.

There is no Kevlar under the skull painted on his chest, tonight. Just his assault rifle slung on a shoulder, no spare mag. One 9mm. Nothing else. The Punisher is travelling light.

He leaves the house, one last look to the open space, the couch. The kitchen counter. Matt's cane is propped against the wall beside the door. He picks it up, folds it, puts it in his backpack. The door closes behind him with a final click that echoes in the whole building. Or maybe his ears are just over sensitive. He's dizzy, his head hurts. Fireflies dance in front of his eyes. _Get your shit together, Frank._

It's dark outside. Ok, so it's night. Good. He walks down the dark streets, no one is around. Must be late night. Early morning, maybe. He hears footsteps behind him, quick. Someone passes him, hands in pockets, a hood pulled up on their head. His heart skips a beat, then he remembers. The pain is immediate. He shakes his head and keeps walking.

Almost there now. He can hear the voices, the music from inside the building. Fuckin' lowlifes are throwing a party. Celebrating their newfound freedom, no doubt. Celebrating the absence of the Devil from their city. He's nauseous.

He kicks the door open. All noises die immediately. Every head turns towards him. What they see must scare the shit out of them, because they are all frozen for a split second.

"Shit, it's the Punisher!", someone whispers to his left. Frank's hand flies to the 9mm on his thigh. He doesn't even take aim. Piece of shit is dead before he hits the ground.

Chaos. They're all screaming now, scrambling for the doors, trying to get to their guns. Frank embraces his rifle and opens fire. The stench of gunpowder and blood fills the room instantly. Some of the screams are interrupted abruptly, other sounds join the choir. Breath rattling through blood-filled lungs; moans; coughs. Gunfire.

 _Click. Oh, that's it._ No more rounds. The rifle is useless as a stick, now. But he's not done yet. They are still standing. He hasn't taken down nearly enough. He hangs his head, kneels, his hands between his legs. Eyes closed. Defeated.

Cold. The barrel of a gun on his temple. The sound of the hammer being pulled back. A small smile dances at the corners of his mouth. He should've expected this. Fucking big-ass gun. Guy must have self-esteem issues. He chuckles.

"What the fuck are you laughing about, piece of shit?" A voice to his left. Nervous. Probably the same man who's pointing a hand cannon to his head. He doesn't answer.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Their faces dance in front of him. Maria. Frankie. Lisa.

Red.

"Any last words?" the same voice asks. The gun is pushed harder against his temple.

A whisper.

"I'm coming."

They say you don't hear the bullet that gets you. He'd asked Red if it were true, once. Now he knows.


End file.
